


Snowflake Memories

by Small_Hobbit



Series: Twelve Days of Christmas plus A Few [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:36:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: Watching the snow fall brings back memories for Inspector Stanley Hopkins





	Snowflake Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [okapi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/gifts).



 “I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, I’m rather early this afternoon,” Inspector Stanley Hopkins said.  “Doctor Watson told me to come over as soon as I had finished at work, but I can see you are occupied.  I will leave you and return later.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hopkins,” Holmes replied.  “Watson should be back within the hour, he was only meeting some friends at his club for lunch, and Lestrade will be along soon as well.  Mrs Hudson is sure to bring up some tea shortly since she knows you are here.  And the weather is not of the sort to encourage you to take a stroll in the park.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, you are most kind.”

Hopkins walked over to the window and stood smiling slightly as he watched the snow falling.  Suddenly his expression changed, and Holmes saw him tense up.

“Something is troubling you,” Holmes said.

“Just, just a memory,” Hopkins shook his head, as if trying to disperse it.  “Nothing of importance.”

“But sufficient to still be rather upsetting,” Holmes replied.  “The good doctor is of the opinion sharing such memories can be helpful.  I will go and ask Mrs Hudson to bring the tea up and then perhaps you would like to do so.”

Holmes left to call Mrs Hudson, which gave Hopkins a chance to compose himself as he sat down in one of the armchairs.

Holmes returned to sit in the other armchair and nodded at Hopkins to begin.

“I was watching the snow falling and remembering an occasion when I was about five years old.  We had an elderly aunt staying with us, who was adamant there were fairies at the bottom of the garden.  One morning I woke up and it had snowed in the night.  I remembered the fairies, and as soon I had eaten my breakfast I hurried into the garden and began frantically digging in the snow to rescue them.” 

Hopkins stopped abruptly and Holmes nodded.  “And you remembered digging even more frantically to rescue the men trapped by the collapse of the railway embankment.  What happened next when you were digging in the snow?”

“The gardener came over to see what I was doing.  I explained, and he told me the fairies would be fine, for the snow would be like a blanket above them, keeping them warm.  Then he suggested I use the snow which I had already dug to build a snowman to keep guard over the fairies.  After a little while it began to snow again and the gardener told me if I looked very closely at some of the big snowflakes I might just see a fairy dancing inside it.”  Hopkins smiled once more at the memory.

“A whimsical fellow.”

“He was Irish and rather prone to such stories.”

At that point Mrs Hudson arrived, bearing a tray which included hot crumpets and a plate of mince pies.  Over the years she had learnt the difference between Holmes’ imperious “Tea, Mrs Hudson”, with the good chance he would have forgotten he’d requested it five minutes later, and the urgent “Tea please, Mrs Hudson,” which generally meant Dr Watson was cold, tired, or injured, and quite possibly all three.

She placed the tray on the table, looked pointedly at Hopkins and said, “Make sure you eat the crumpets while they are still hot,” and departed.  She wasn’t sure what had happened, but in her opinion the young inspector was far too pale and a bit of discrete mothering wouldn’t go amiss.

Hopkins helped himself to one of the crumpets and continued his story.  “At that point Nanny came out to tell me I had to go indoors before I grew too cold.  She took me to the kitchen so she could dry off my hat and gloves, and we found cook in the middle of baking.  The table was covered with trays of mince pies and other delicacies, for my parents were entertaining that evening.  All thoughts of fairies and snowmen were banished from my mind, and I must have looked very hopeful, for cook gave me a mince pie which I sat and ate, surrounded by the wonderful smell of her baking.”

Hopkins smiled at the memory, and took another crumpet.

“A childish tale, and yet you remember it after all these years,” Holmes said.  “And maybe there is something is what the gardener said.  Oh, not that snowflakes are anything other than frozen water, crystallised in a certain way, but that our efforts to rescue others are never wasted, even if the outcome is not as we expect.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, for your understanding.”

“Not at all.  And now, I hear the voices of Watson and Lestrade, so I suggest you have a mince pie or two, because they will not last long once they spot them.”

 

 


End file.
